


Póg Mo Thóin

by SheelaNaGig



Series: Every Thug Needs a Lady [1]
Category: Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rimming, Shower Sex, mentions of domestic violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 21:14:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8029183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheelaNaGig/pseuds/SheelaNaGig
Summary: What happens when you tell Digger Harkness to kiss your ass?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I dithered over posting this. Especially since there like 4 other installments of this story marinating in my writing folder right now, this one being the raunchiest. (Do far anyway!) I agonized over the prose for a few days and am calling it quits and saying fuck it. So here ya go!
> 
> So yea, if you don't particularly care for buttstuff, then look away! There be anal dragons ahead. And I'm not talking about wyverns with Type A personalities either.

The watery light of morning rocked me awake. If the sun was up, then my day had already started out at least two hours behind where it ought to have began. Holy shit, I was late for work! But before I shot up and ran around like my ass was on fire, I happened to remember how I’d taken the day off. Nice job, past me. No pints to pour, no smiles to fake, no counters to swab, and no grabby hands to evade. 

With a contented sigh of sweet, sweet freedom, I slumped back into the comfort of my pillows. My consciousness slid back into a dreamlike half-sleep, my limbs heavy and blissful. Well, blissful despite feeling like I’d taken a battering ram between my thighs. And just as I’d forgotten about my day off, my sleep-fuddled brain also chose to neglect the fact that I had fallen asleep with company. A rumble of a snore broke mid-morning silence. That would be the battering ram, or more precisely the scoundrel attached to the battering ram.

Digger laid on his side, turned away from morning’s impatient press through my bay window. His massive frame looked oddly cozy nestled amid pink floral bed cover and quaint cream bedsheets. Something soft to compliment those rough hewn edges of his. Quite an adorable scene for an overall unrepentant scumbag and notorious thief. Believe me, I recognize what he is, and I hereby acknowledge that I’m likely making a mistake of epic proportions every time I take him back to my bed. But isn’t everyone guilty of ignoring their partner’s bad habits? Alright, so _bad habit_ may not necessarily be synonymous with _aggravated assault_. My boyfriend’s bad habits are considered felonies across multiple continents and hemispheres, but at least he puts the toilet seat down after he pisses. 

I’d dated my fair share of bad boys when I was younger. Boys who drank. Boys who smoked. Boys who fought. Boys with single page rap sheets filed in some Central City precinct cabinet. Now I’m 26 and bad boys lost their novelty. I’d set myself up to coast out into an entirely respectable dating pool. Then in swaggered George “Digger” Harkness, a loudmouthed Australian criminal who had the balls and the cunning to back up that bravado. Not hard on the eyes either. It wasn’t that I'd outgrown my taste for bad boys, it was that it matured into a proclivity for bad men.

And counting the growing list of assault charges and burglaries that might as well spew from a stock ticker, to call Digger a bad man was an understatement.

The thief slept awfully sound for a man whose only professional pictures were mugshots and grainy surveillance stills. He cradled Pinky to his furry chest with one arm. The other arm shoved under the pillow beneath his head. As I distinctly remembered falling asleep snuggling the cute, Digger-scented plush, I wondered if he had deliberately stolen back the pink unicorn during the night. Or maybe he had an unconscious sense of its presence like a sleepy child reaching out to a cherished teddy? His face relaxed, mouth slacked while emitting light snores. Lost in the untroubled sleep shared by angels and criminals with broken moral compasses alike. Unable to help myself, I combed my fingers through the ash blond cherub curls along his nape, curls naked of product and coiled out of sheer luck in winning the genetic lottery.

How could such a crude brute be this beautifully made?

Some ladies prefer their lads meticulously manscaped. This girl here says the furrier, the better. Morning light glinted in the coppery hair curled on his legs. My hungry gaze chased up his thighs, caught on the sparse fuzz that covered his ass. That’s when I first noticed the angry crescents of nail gouges I’d inscribed him with. Whoops. Call me callous, but I didn’t feel a lick of guilt for inflicting the scratches, nor causing the pain that accompanied them, only a subtle remorse for marring the pretty picture of his body.

Not like the man was a fresh palette of unsullied skin to begin with. Scars ran silvered tracks beneath the shiny pale pink runnels of newer lacerations. Slashes kept company with a lone pucker of an entrance wound, otherwise known as that time Digger learned the hard way how American’s lived up to their gun-toting stereotype. Not all the marks were permanent. Faded watercolor stains of old bruises blotted his hip and ribs. Probably a spill from his bike, or a hard landing out a busted out window, or possibly a lunge over a bank teller station. One never knew with the thrilling, sometimes ill-planned heists of Captain Boomerang. But out of the whole of his sturdy body, his hands bore the brunt of his self-inflicted damage. The burglar and bank robber with a machinist’s hands. The wear surpassed ashy calluses and dirty nails chewed to the quick. There wasn’t an inch left on his hands unfretted or unnicked, the toll of not only crafting his unique weapons, but also the painful trial and error he suffered to master them as well. A lone bandaid wrapped around his middle finger concealed the most recent mishap. One more blood tithe he paid, a tithe no back alley crook who simply bought a gun would ever understand. 

So of course after I squandered some time mooning over the rogue, one his wonderfully adept hands strayed down to scratch at his balls. Lovely. I shook my head to clear it of all these sappy butterflies swarming in my mind. Here I was at 8AM watching an infamous criminal lowlife doze in my bed while I painted him as some perpetually misunderstood Byronic hero. He wasn’t an artist. Digger sculpted weapons meant to maim and kill, weapons only beautiful in their precise brutality. And besides, was I really waxing romantic about a guy who shot his load all over my stomach last night?

I peered down at my aforementioned cum-spattered stomach. I dimly recalled his cleanup effort after last night’s second bout; a few swipes of a tissue before he shoved Pinky in my arms and flopped back into bed, his secure, cozy embrace enveloping me. Now the cold light of day revealed faint streaks of spunk crusted over my belly where he spurted them. Apparently Digger had done a less than stellar job of cleaning me up. Why was I not surprised? I huffed and then glared at the slumbering lout. Lazy Aussie bastard. On top of that spunky indignity, I took a good whiff of myself and grimaced. Beneath a fragrant douse of Eau de Hot Fuck, I sniffed stale beer and cigarette smoke from work. Never did take my customary, post-shift shower which was as good as ritual to me.

After planting a quick peck on his shoulder, I slid out of bed and immediately regretted doing so. Everything ached. I’d ran the emotional triathlon yesterday. All that fury, lust, and adrenaline finally exacted its toll. Why did making up have to be as spectacularly tumultuous as breaking up? The arguments, the jealousy, the bared teeth and figurative pissing matches of my pride pitted against his reluctance to apologize for kinda sorta cheating on me with my sister. 

Oh yea. I sucker punched him for that one. 

Then I lapsed into this weepy mess of a hysterical chick. Not hysterical _Ha Ha_ , but hysterical as in _riding the crest of an overdue mental breakdown_ hysterical. He took the hits of my fists. Endured the abuse of my words. Wore the scratches of my nails. And when I purged all that hysteria out, Digger paid me back in kind the second he got my panties around my knees and those knees on the floor. 

I came to an abrupt halt on my trek to the bathroom, momentarily staggered by the vivid memory of his hips slamming my ass as he fucked me into the carpet. No wonder my knees burned. In fact, it took place right there on my living room floor because neither of us proved capable of stalling a month’s worth of unadulterated hate fucking until we reached a bed. While I was sore, stiff, and slightly crampy, my pussy remained the lone proponent who called for an encore performance. Her roommate cervix definitely wasn’t a fan of that idea. 

After I took care of some unsavory bathroom business, I alleviated my abused cervix’s pain with a few tylenol. You get used to the cervix bashing sex after the first few times. Clearly I’d lost my tolerance. What aches the painkillers hadn’t numbed were eased by the steaming shower sluicing down my body. I prefer mine nice and hot, hot as in a few degrees shy of scalding. My skin pinkened under the constant downpour and grew ruddier with each scrub of my loofah. 

As this was the first time I’d been alone since yesterday, my mind drifted in that shower-induced trance state where great mysteries were either solved or further complicated. Right now I pondered the mysterious reappearance of the hulking Australian thug sprawled in my bedroom. This wasn’t the first time he’d left and returned as his aptly adopted moniker. When it came down to it, the only thing I ever expected of Digger was to leave. Kinda depressing but at least I was never disappointed that way. Our relationship, or whatever the hell sparked between us, was transient by nature. Never expected a ring or the coveted white picket fence. Sort of like a catch and release except the same shark kept swimming back into the net. 

But this time it felt different. There was an openness which had previously been closed to me, to anyone. Unlocked doors to an intense desire I’d only been privy to the rare, unguarded moments between pints or bed sheets. The doors were open and he kept them open. Why now?

I’d just finished rinsing my shampoo suds from my hair when my shower curtain scraped open. A month alone reduced my reflexes to skittish muscle memory. Great. For a split second I feared I was about to get Psychoed by some prowling serial killer. I snatched a bottle of body wash off shower caddy because really, what the hell am I going to defend myself with? My safety razor? 

But all that horror movie victim fear withered when Digger stepped into the tub. Still naked of course. The man loathed clothing. He took stock of the bottle in my hand and his brows lifted an amused inch. “So we’re back to yah tossin’ things at me then? Here I was thinkin’ yah enjoyed last night. And not to mention the afternoon before that,” he added, proud of the running tally.

My cheeks flushed from more than the muggy steam. I set the bottle down and countered, “That was yesterday. What have you done for me lately?”

The question was off my lips before I realized how it was both a right and wrong thing say.

Without taking his gaze off me, Digger reached behind his back and slid the curtain closed. Amazing how a flimsy shower curtain felt as stifling as a locked door. 

As I wouldn’t describe my tub/shower combo as _roomy_ or _ample_ , the newcomer’s burly frame chewed up most of the standing room. The shower jet buffeted off his massive back. Water misted and sprayed into his hair, turned the tawny blonde curls to gleaming brown locks. Digger ran one of those scarred hands through his hair like a model posing for a porn rag. Thin rivulets trickled down his temple, beaded off his nose. The bastard knew exactly how hot he was and exploited the unfair advantage any chance he got.

He raked his gaze over every bared inch of my wet curves, drank in my naked body and went back for another round. That roguish smirk threatened to curve his lips to match the sizzle in his eyes. But he restrained it. Stifled all that waggish sway from his face as he cornered me, blocked my escape route. Sensation racked my body and it was too warm to be called a shiver. 

With my body frozen in place, my gaze skimmed down the muscled plane of his abdomen and snagged on his dick. Judging by his excitement, Digger definitely hadn’t come in here to get clean. The man was as breathtaking as an obscene Roman statue too vulgar for public display. But I looked freely at my own private show. I’m not ashamed. At this point, we were long past shame. A glance down confirmed his cock was already hard and ready. I’d have ogled it longer, but one never took her attention off Digger’s eyes too long when they had that hungry, honed look in them. In the most base, abjectly literal sense, I was about to get fucked.

His hand came up to map the contours of my flank, tracing up and down as calloused finger pads slid over my wet silken flesh. As our disparate heights required, he bent slightly to kiss me. I tasted the smoke of his morning cigarette and the malt of what could be none other than the stout I kept in my fridge. The usual breakfast. His stubble and facial hair scratched along my sensitive lips but I didn’t mind. If anything I loved the contrasting sensation of his hot, wet velvet tongue and the dry chafe of his whiskers. My shoulder blades met cool tile. With the long line of his hard body flush to my softer, shorter figure, he teased me with a shallow buck of his hips, his hard-on a scorching brand against my belly. 

My fingers wedged between our bodies and I curled my grasp on the savory, firm length. And when it twitched in response, my other hand dropped to fondle his balls. I enjoyed their fuzzy, hefty weight rolling in my palm and Digger enjoyed when I played them. He groaned then gave a teasing little thrust into my wet grip. A preview. His own hand slid up, cupped my breast then moved on to cradle my jaw in a gentle, yet unbreakable hold. He tipped my head back and up to meet his gaze.

Silhouettes of lusty thoughts burned in those eyes, swallowed by the dilated onyx pupils floating atop steel blue irises. I’m not gonna lie. Sex was the fulcrum of our relationship tilted upon. Sure, we made good partners in crime and shared the same flavor of gallows humor, but ultimately it came down to one simple fact: we fucked like we were trying to mash ourselves back together into one person. 

“Turn around.” He made the demand as only an imposing, naked brute cornering a petite, similarly naked woman in shower stall could make without anticipating much of an objection. Those eyes alone were enough to turn me into a docile, submissive underling because that’s the game we were playing. I turned without protest. 

“Brace your hands on the on the wall. Little above your head. Higher. Yeah, that’s a good girl. Now spread your feet as wide as the tub’ll let yah. Don’t be shy.” I felt his palm linger on the back of my thigh just below my ass. “Lift up this leg and prop your foot on the tub ledge. You’re hidin’ all the juicy bits from me.”

I ended up bent at a 45° angle and everything pursed between my legs partially bloomed. An appraising hand glided across my shoulders, sweeping the wet hair off my back to gather and hang out of the way. The man wanted to survey what was his. Possessive asshole. He always got what he wanted eventually with everything else. Why would I be any different? I shuddered, part arousal for his ruthless stare and part environmental because I felt a little chilly without the warm water cascading on me. 

His touch drifted down my side, lingered over the twin slopes of my ass. His hands, which typically wielded weapons and maimed whoever got in their way, kneaded the supple swell as gentle as a stress toy. And before I had time to marshal the remaining tatters of my modesty, he prised my cheeks apart and granted himself a better look. I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out when he slid his shaft’s underside back and forth through the slick furrow.

“Do you know how many times I dreamed about yah like this? Remembered the way yah taste. Those little noises yah make.” He leaned forward, his chest hair tickling my shoulder blades as one of his muttonchops brushed the shell of my ear. The words came throaty, low, and tinged with irritation. “Spent nights fucking my hand imaginin’ it was your lovely tight arse.”

My nails scratched uselessly against the tile. Digger’s hips rocked forward, grinding his stiff length against my exposed rim.

“But don’t go thinkin’ I play favorites. Thought a lot about the cunt too. Did yah think about me buried in yah cunt while I was gone?”

“Yes.” Eyes closed, I made my confession like a good little Catholic girl with only a whit of the shame. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, am in the act of sinning right now. The devil’s name isn’t Lucifer. It’s George Harkness and damnation never felt so damn heavenly. 

“Did yah touch yourself? Use your vibe while thinking about me?”

Without specifying which, I nodded, and received a stinging spank across my ass to punish my ambiguity. I cried out. My whine threw back a faint echo against the white bathroom tile. Usually I’d manage to stifle my outcries until he got a few good swats in, but wet skin worsens the strike, makes it bite harsher and flare deeper than spanking on dry skin. 

“So which is it?” His impatience raised my hackles and seethed needy currents low in my stomach.

“T-touch…I still don’t…” I struggled to tack my words in some semblance of a coherent order. “I still d-don’t own a vibrator.”

“Guess I’ll have to do a little shopping then.” He patted my stinging ass and took a step back. “You’re lucky I’m good at improvisin’, girl. Don’t turn around.”

I obeyed. Me? Obeying? When we played like this before, I’d mouth off. Brat him. Provoke his punishments. But whether it be our turbulent reunion or my prior exhaustion, I opted for nothing less than total compliance. 

Something clanked and the shower spray sluiced warmth down the backs of my calves. He’d removed the detachable shower head from its cradle. The adjuster ring crisply clicked in the narrow stall, the spray switched to a concentrated jet meant for sore backs and stress knots. Thankfully, he kept cycling through, deciding on a setting that was firm but gentle enough for the sensitive body part I anticipated he’d use it on. 

I must have been shivering because he warmed me up with a quick douse. The water was notably milder than my precious scald setting but still warm. Bless his filthy foresight. He teased the jet down my back, over my ass, and eventually held the tireless pressure over my plump labia. By Digger’s own hand, the flow migrated down that all-important inch between orgasm and frustration to aim smack dab onto my clit. If I wasn’t braced against a wall, I’d probably have been immortalized by blurb in one of those Darwin Award books. _Darcy Madigan slipped and cracked her skull open on a cast iron tub, thus disproving her boast that the hardest part of an Irish woman’s body is her head._

Rough fingers pinched my nipple and banished away all thoughts of accidental yet ironic death. Sensation synched and intertwined and my nerves, corkscrewing white hot pleasure through my clit faster than my own woefully manual attentions could ever conjure. My hips juddered, wavered between seeking the sensation and evading it.

“What did yah say to me yesterday when yah cursed at me in Irish?” he demanded in a silken, sinful tone that promised utter devastation.

Yesterday? He wanted to talk about yesterday? Right now I struggled to remember how to speak English let alone recall a Gaelic insult from the day before. As both punishment and incentive, he shifted the stream away from my needy clit, denying my orgasm like it was rightfully his to dole out as he pleased. The pitiless bastard.

“Darcy. What did yah tell me to do in Irish?” his tone lost its tease, tempered into something harder, sterner. Ruthless.

“P-póg mo thóin.” My thighs trembled, the overwrought muscles leaping so quick that it was an endeavor to remain upright. “Kiss my a-ass.”

Digger chuckled darkly, the sound rolling heavy and hot into some hidden cauldron where all my naughty urges roiled over. In reward, he replaced the jet back to its wicked, provocative position, only this time the spray pounded off my rim in an obscenely detailed rinse. “Do yah know what ‘appens to girls who lodge such dirty requests?”

I shook my head, not because I didn’t know the answer but because I couldn’t fish the words from my foggy brain. If I’d been hazy on his intentions before, I got a crystal clear hint when I heard his knees meet the ceramic floor of the tub. He alternated the spray up and down, rim to clit and back in a rhythm that redefined the term _water torture_ My elbows and palms braced on the wall, the tiles cooling the fever spread across my forehead as I fought to keep from crying out, to keep from begging for more. 

Finally, the jet settled back on my clit and those plaintive whimpers tumbled from my lips.

The faint scratch of his muttonchops brushed the lower slope of my butt. “Naughty girls get what they ask for, Dars. And it’s filthy, bad bastards that give it to them.”

His nose grazed down my crack before his lips sealed over my pucker and this is exactly why you don’t tell Digger Harkness to kiss your ass. Or do. Fuck, if you’re into that sort of kink then definitely tell Digger to kiss your ass, because he’ll do it with such unadulterated zeal that it transcends taboo. My caveat: Accept the consequences, cause if you like it, there’s no going back. It’s an advent of a deeper, raunchier perversion that renders vanilla sex somewhat blander to the broadened palate of debauchery. But hey, you gotta own your kink. 

Teeth lightly scraped the crinkled orifice and soon his tongue came out to play. How did something so filthy feel so overwhelmingly amazing? My body weltered in the tangled overload of dueling sensations. Between the ceaseless jet on my clit and tongue rimming my ass, my nerves crackled as if he’d taken a live current to me. I’d have been embarrassed by how quickly I came if my knees weren’t buckling out beneath me. An arm wound around my torso to steady me, taking the shower head with it. A doozy of an orgasm that left me painfully aware of how my cunt convulsed around emptiness.

“Oh fuck…” My nerves fired off faster than my lips could keep up. “Oh God, George, fuck! Fuck me! Please fuck me!”

And just like that, he was back on his feet. That preternatural agility that manifested in the worst of the best times. The shower head swung away and clanked against the side of the tub in a hollow clamor. I was still riding the last few waves of devastating bliss when his blunt cockhead nudged my delicate folds and he thrust up, rammed through the pulsing vise grip of my spasming pussy. 

Not that I didn’t want it, mind you, I had technically asked for it, but would his dick burst just to give me a few moments of recovery time? I twisted and threw my elbow to stave him off. Like that did any good. My reflexes were as smooth as a drunken klutz with poor depth perception. Digger caught my wrists and pinned them to the wall, his towering frame bowed over mine, his intrusion unstoppable. I heard him utter soft, soothing words as his lips and whiskers grazed my nape. He powered through the clench, my body yielding to each burning inch until his hips bottomed out against my ass.

“Wanted to fuck yah like this that first night I met yah,” he said, his voice as husky and dangerous as an aphrodisiac that might eventually poison me. “Slide down those pajama bottoms, bend yah snobby arse over. Fill yah with my prick. Take what I wanted and what you were too uptight tah give.”

It wasn’t the first time he’s made this confession mid-fuck and it wouldn’t be the last. Yet somehow it never lost its potency to make me gush.

My body swiftly surrendered after he primed me with a few slow strokes, the excruciating stretch mellowed into pleasure. Then the time for tenderness was over. The pace redoubled, sharpened until the sound of his hips clapping my ass and my cries mingled over the constant stream of water. This wasn’t a marathon fuck or an endurance competition. A growl of an entirely Australian swear told me he was cumming, spurting before I even had a chance to demand he not do so inside me. Which he did. If my shoddy concept of time was to be trusted, that was twice in an 8-hour period he shot his load on me.

Panting, Digger slumped against me, heavier than I remembered, his weight pinning my to the tile wall. His robust heartbeat battered my back, in sync with the roaring pulse through my own body. My lungs struggled to take in air. If I didn’t get him off me, I might wind up either crushed or suffocated. Not a bad way to die, but I’d like to save that for another day far in the future. I tapped on his forearm like an MMA fighter tapping out of a match. With a grumble, he braced his elbows on the wall, levered himself off me to my deprived lungs' gratitude. He withdrew his flagging prick from its snug, temporary sheath in one lazy motion.

“Look at that,” he remarked and his tone dripped in male smugness. Fingers traced the inside of my thigh and collected the semen dribbled there. “Let’s get ya cleaned up, luv.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been awhile! This has sat 75% finished in my writing folder so I figured I complete it.

Once I trusted my feet again the two of us used the shower as good, wholesome builders intended. Fucking in the shower was easy compared to any earnest attempt to wash ourselves. After all, Sex encouraged two people to occupy as little physical space as possible. While certainly a step-up from any bathroom in Digger’s various workshops/squats, my bathroom was no six jet, marble tile affair replete with rainfall shower or enough floor space to perform a pirouette. Not by a long shot. Now that we were no longer deliberately shoving ourselves together, we waged war for elbow room with Digger as the obvious victor. The spectacle was both awkwardly executed and hilariously impractical. If I wasn’t jabbing him in his beefy ribs, he was crowding me into a chilly, miserable corner while he hogged the warm water.

Digger was at least efficient in his greed. He did in two minutes what took me fifteen. Scrubbed the broad expanse of his chest and back like the shower nozzle ran on a timer. But I suppose when you hail from a continent that’s one bad day away from plunging into _Mad Max_ you learn the value of water conservation and master the art of the quick wash. Clean and looking like a nautical god compared to my drowned rat, he stole one last greedy pinch on my backside and stepped out. The curtain scraped closed between us. My triumph of the solo shower didn’t taste nearly as sweet as I expected, nor did the water feel as hot as I’d hoped. I rinsed under the cooling jet, listening to the squeak and clap of bathroom cabinets as Digger rummaged around in them. What the hell was he up to now?

I didn’t wonder long. I exited the stall and into the fluffy embrace of an outheld towel. Ah, so that’s what he was after. The thieving cad swapped to a deceptively snuggable teddy bear of a burly Australian. The same man who delighted in spanking my ass also towel dried my hair and body with utmost care. Affectionate and tender, this facet of his personality had caught me off guard when we first started knocking boots. I figured it had to be a put on. Some counterfeit to play me. Him? The grubby bank robber who necks beers in three swallows likes to dote on his lover? But surprise, surprise. The guy who looks like a one man Fight Club has a sweet side. Sure, it’s buried beneath a grime of machismo and occasional acts of assholery, but it’s there.

Arms banded around my body, equal parts tender and possessive, pulled me flush to his chest and I could neither help but let him. This was where I belonged. He might not be jockeying for prince charming anytime soon, but I sure as hell wasn’t a princess. What we shared was too wild, to vicious for such pretty aspirations. The power. The jealousy. The claim. It was all there in his heart beating a steady, powerful cadence against my forehead. 

I tipped my head back, drank him in all the ways I’d thirsted for him these past weeks. Digger must have suffered a similar prickle of appetite because his mouth slowly lowered, dipped to kiss my lips. And he’d have gotten that kiss too if I hadn’t rudely blocked the romantic, well-intentioned caress with my palm.

"No fucking way. Not after where that tongue was last,” I said and kept my hand clapped over his broad mouth.

"Why not?" The words muffled in hot, humid breaths in my palm. I nudged him out of lip-striking distance before uncovering the lower part of his face. "Yah fucking love it when I give yah a big sloppy kiss after I mung yah cunt out." 

I stared shrewdly up at him, not buying a single ounce of what he was selling. “Pussy is one thing, but ass..."

Undeterred, Digger wound the towel ends around his wrists, choking the terry cloth up higher and tucking me tighter against the slick, sultry expanse of his hard body. “Trust me. Yah taste divine. Right heavenly. Reckon an angel's arsehole tastes exactly as sweet as yours.”

Oh lord. What else could I do but laugh at that? 

“And your ass will be fried when the inevitable lightning bolt strikes it for such sacrilegious talk.” I snatched a bottle of mouthwash from the counter and pressed the closed cap to his lips. “Here. Tastes better than soap. Do nothing for the blasphemy though. You’re gonna need a priest to scrub that off you."

He shot me a droll, condescending look, but ultimately dropped the towel, freeing his hands to unscrew the mouthwash cap. A second later he took a heaping mouthful of the minty green solution. Furry cheeks puffed and swished obnoxiously as he flushed out his dirty mouth. The Aussie tipped back his head, gargled, and then spat the mouthwash in the sink basin in a splash of green liquid.

Just to act cheeky, Digger leaned forward and blew minty fresh breath over my lips. "Happy now, luv?"

Standards met and unable to deny myself any longer, I pounced. Hooked my hands behind his neck and tugged him down to kiss me. His deep rolling chuckled smothered into my open mouth, reverberating back as a moan. I love kissing this man. Love the suede soft lips paired with the harsh scrape of his facial hair down to the tapped primal energy that fluctuated between tenderness and savagery. But the clarion blast of mint overwhelmed, tasted wrong on him. Too fresh. Too clean. Digger had a perpetually filthy mouth with a flavor that bespoke of casual alcoholism and a pack a day habit. Still his tongue performed those wonderful little tricks with mine. My lust amplified, twisted to answer his with my own blend of tender savagery. 

Before our brains caught up with our bodies, he'd had his hands gripped under my ass, boosted me up, settled me on the cold granite sink with legs twined around his stocky waist like eager ivy around an oak. We broke apart. Bright, feral eyes glinted from their heavy lidded depths as they met mine. His lips crooked up at one side.

"Keep goin’ at it like this and we might get stuck togetha,” he spoke low against my jaw, nuzzling the side of my face like some great big beast instead of a man.

"God, I hope not. Then I'll never be rid of you." The tip of my nose affectionally skimmed down his cheek, tracing the scruffy margin between muttonchop and bare skin.

“Oi, yah say that now, but admit it. Yah’d miss ol' Digger when he's gone." To prove his point, he ground his half-hard cock along the splayed, ruthlessly exposed folds of my sex. Crass but effective.

"True. You throw a good bone, I’ll give you that. But it wouldn’t hurt if you came with a mute button," I said and failed to bite back my grin when he looked affronted.

“And here I thought yah fancied me for my conversational skills.” He sniffed. 

Eventually we shambled—or rather I shambled on wobbly legs and he strolled spry as ever— from the bathroom and back into my bedroom. 9AM greeted us with cheerfully annoying sunlight streaming through the windows and the infectious groan of our empty stomachs. Unbothered by his own nudity, the burly Australian sunk back into the pillow mountain he’d piled against my headboard. He plucked a beer bootle off my nightstand and took a long pull, draining it. A few stray droplets clung to his scruffy mouth and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. 

“We oughta get pizza.”

“At 9AM?” I said from my shallow walk-in closet as I picked through my wardrobe, the hangers grating and screeching on the overhead rail. “I’m up for food, but not pizza. Carbs stick to my thighs.”

“So does my cum, but don’t recall you objectin’ earlier.” Cheeky. I heard him groan as he stretched, the mattress creaking as he readjusted himself in bed. “And I ‘appen to like your thighs, carby jiggle and all. Say, yah still got those yoga pants I got ya?” 

I stuck my head out to glare at him. “Don’t even start with that. I don’t care if that was almost a year ago, I’m still kinda pissed.”

“Oi, most birds would love it if their boyfriends took ‘em on a shoppin’ spree.”

“You didn’t take me on a shoppin’ spree.’ You robbed a Lululemon, broke into my apartment while I was at work, and replaced all my comfy, cozy jeans with yoga pants. That’s nowhere in the same vicinity as taking me on a shopping trip. You know, to stores I like…during business hours when they are actually open. That’s a crime spree to fulfill your own fetish, darling.”

“Well, do yah ‘ave ‘em or not?” 

I stuck my hand out the closet and gave him the finger.

Being petty, I ignored the tall stack of yoga pants I had indeed kept and shifted my attention to the daintier part of my wardrobe. There was surely something girly I didn’t get to wear often. Today’s outfit was a mulberry mini dress with bell sleeves. The lacy garment had a hemline so high that bending over in private was a tease and bending over in public was absolute scandal. Very sexy, albeit a little seasonally inappropriate. Yet a little voice of my corrupt conscience told me I wouldn’t be leaving the house today. Perhaps not even the bedroom. Digger liked my thighs, well he was in for an irresistible treat.

I stayed in the closet and raided my own underwear drawer for cute knickers to complement my cute dress. It felt nice to have someone to dress up for again. I was deciding between a pair of fuck-me heels or fuck-me boots when I noticed how minutes elapsed without a smartass quip from the loudmouthed peanut gallery. Silence, unless moody or broody, was uncharacteristic for Digger. 

Dress draped over my arm, I left the closet as naked as I’d walked in to find him still sprawled—equally naked—across my bed. He looked peaceful. At rest. A serenity I’d never recall seeing from a man who fidgeted constantly and seemed to teeter on the final phase of an escape plan. His feet spread, his bulky arms crooked up with hands folded behind his head. His eyes closed to the world. 

The tranquility he cultivated filled with my disquiet. A sudden, vertiginous feeling rattled through me. Like I’d run since last night and came to the inevitable cliff edge of decision. Somehow, this was the moment that would define the rest of our relationship and my mind, heart, and soul all scrambled to plead their cases.

So what if he was hot, threw great dick, and was good for a laugh over beers. He was also crass, bossy, a magnet for trouble of the legal and emotional varieties. I didn’t need this human tsunami bowling through my safe, steady life. 

What I ought to do is call all this off, make up some excuse or fabricate an appointment, anything to get him out of my apartment and potentially out of my life. He’s a dangerous criminal wanted on multiple continents. Should be an easy verdict to reach.

Unfortunately the seductive allure of lust tended to incinerate the cold logic of common sense as banned books kindle in a bonfire.

Because what I actually did was slink over to the bed, crawl between his legs, and blow the dangerous criminal wanted on multiple continents. Yep, asking him to leave was so not happening. Reason lost the great Head-Libido War of Wednesday Morning. My better judgement tried to deter me. It really tried. Endorphins and impulse stacked against me as they stacked against anything with a pulse and reproductive organs. So I refused to take my defeat too badly. After all, half the population wouldn’t exist if people’s brains outmaneuvered their sex drives. 

Brash decisions aside, I felt like a goddess relishing the animalistic responses my mouth drove from Digger. To see someone so much larger than myself so easily compromised. Some distant, voyeuristic piece of my psyche stood aside in awe. At the faint shudder rippling through his thighs as I slid the head of his flaccid length between my lips. At the how the private silken skin tasted of clean water, musky male and the tang of my own pussy. While the taste was delicious, the groan that splintered out of him while I swallowed his engorged shaft was panty gushingly yummy. His half-hard length twitched and swelled back to life, filled my mouth before it prodded the back of my throat. My gag reflex was always fickle. Sometimes I could sword swallow like a seasoned pornstar, other times I sputtered and choked. Good thing Digger liked it both ways, but then again, I think all guys get a secret ego boost from having a woman choke on their meat.

His fingers tangled in my damp hair and his hips jerked up and off the mattress, seizing the opportunity to fuck my mouth. My small, wet sputters hummed around his dick only spurred him. Neither of us were particularly passive bed partners. Passive play required the use of rope coils and sturdy knotwork. 

“Can’t get enough of this fat prick. Can yah, sweetness?”

My tongue tip slipping beneath his foreskin, culled some of the smugness from his voice. All because of one small, deft swipe along secret nerves that circumcised men were robbed of. I stimulated the oh-so-sensitive erogenous zone for a tantalizing few seconds, delighted his near whine of pleasure before I let off. Did he think I was getting him off that quick? 

I suppose he did, because he stopped me from pulling away. Digger loosed a few colorful swears and his fingers clamped my head by a firm grasp on my scalp. He was such a bastard when he didn’t get his way. Blunt protest in blunt consonants worked up my throat and thrummed around the plump, drum-tight glans which had my tongue otherwise occupied. My own fingers ran vengeful scratches down the tops of his thighs. But I really wasn’t trying to mark him, maybe only hurt him a little. We shared the same appetites in kink. Digger also savored a morsel of pain to go with his pleasure.

For as much he relished control and pounding the warm tunnel of my mouth, it took no more than a tapping gesture on his forearm to get him to let go. A bastard but also a gentleman. I hoisted myself up onto wobbly knees and straddled his hips. Heavy lidded eyes met mine in challenge. The skin around his eyes tightened and his delectable lips went slack, open as his breath left his body in ragged pants before those very same lips peeled back in a snarl. All that calm, cool composure of moments prior frayed like the sheep’s wool and revealed the wolf beneath. 

“What do want, baby?” My mouth brushed along the throbbing pulse point of his throat before my tongue flicked at it. 

He growled, unamused. Teeth caught my nipple, pinched and tugged in lupine warning. When the sting of his misdeed hissed out of me, his hot tongue laved away the ache and gave succor to the pain he dealt.

Digger’s voice came in thick, humid breaths of molten gravel against my nipple. “Yah know what I fuckin’ want, girl. You’re lucky I’ve manners. Any other bloke would ‘ave yah on yah back and poundin’ yah sweet arse in tah the mattress like a tent peg.”

“So you want to go camping?” I baited, wanting him good and riled. 

“Want to root yah like fuckin’ wild beast.” And what beastie he made. His fingertips pressed promises of tomorrow’s bruises on my hips with an intensity that matched his glare. 

“Like this?”

My slick folds pinned his cock down and gave the straining length a teasing, torturous grind. If I kept that little maneuver up, I could get myself off. I’ve done it before with him, on him. Used him like a toy. Just slid my clit over the pronounced ridges of veins embossed on the underside of his dick and ground my way to orgasm. Again, this scheme required trusty rope and absolute faith in my knots. Maybe a gag too if I wanted to muffle Digger’s swears and threats as I left him unfulfilled and helpless. Tempting, but as much as I enjoyed getting off that way, it paled to a good old-fashioned, vigorous fuck. Velvety and hot. Filling that needy part of my body which was pitifully neglected. 

My mouth ranged over his, met with starved, carnivorous demands of my own animal. Prior minty tastes dispelled by the flavor of stale beer and bad decisions. Ah, yes, that’s what my Digger tastes like. Anticipating what was to come, I broke from him, jostled in his lap until I gave him my back.

“Startin’ tah think yah ‘ave a problem lookin’ at me mug when we root,” Digger spoke behind and his paws were already gripping my waist, employing that insane upper body strength to wrangle back into a forward facing position.

“Wait! I want to see your face, but I also want to watch us fuck too.” 

I gestured to the full-length mirror propped in the corner. It reflected my naked figure, displayed my kiss-ripened breasts and Digger’s dark, scarred hands clasping my hips as I sat astride his body. The woman in the mirror was wild eyed and her lips—lips that complemented the plumped flesh between her spread thighs—were ruddy and haloed red from his abrasive scruff. Lightening arced up my core in a hot little bolts at what I saw and we hadn’t even started fucking yet. 

I arched my back, thrusting my breasts out like I was posing for a camera. “This way I can watch you fuck me.” 

He leaned forward, studying the reflection. It took a few more pillows heaped against the headboard and some scooting for the appropriate adjustments, but Digger insinuated himself into the picture so that he also enjoyed the lewd spectacle. 

“Now don’t move.” I warned.

“Oh, fuck, Dars. Not that again.”

“Shut your gob, or I’ll go find a gag and some rope to tie your ass down.”

It had occurred to me in a fleeting thought that I should grab protection. With each time I rode him bareback, the idea of condoms drifted further the river of irresponsibility. But all those straggling concerns of safe sex scattered when he gripped his prick and nudged the head of it against my opening. His groan answered my own blasphemous whimper. My plump folds parted easily as I sunk down the heated, fleshy rod of his cock, impaling my body on every rigid inch. I wriggled around the last two inches, thighs straining, my cunt still faintly sore from our early couplings, until I was saddled on his hips. Huffing beneath me, my mount ground his pelvis into the supple cradle of my splayed legs.

“Uh uh,” I tutted over my shoulder. “Hold still, or I get up and lock myself in the bathroom. At least the shower head behaves. Also doesn’t talk back or act like a crude thug.”

His heavy brow knitted low over his eyes, a dark look I’d seen him sharpen over a bad hand at poker or a counterfeit diamond. A little frisson of fear and thrill crackled through my nerves. Those sharp blues drew a bead on me, placed me right at the center of his crosshairs. 

“We both know yah won’t make it tah the bathroom, luv. And even if yah did, yah think some flimsy two inch thick piece a particleboard’s gonna stand between me and all the inches I gonna give ya?” His hands kneaded my hips in a bruising squeeze, demonstrating the futility of any escape plan.

“Is it really to much to ask you to stay still while I do all the work?” I pouted and batted my eyelashes.

He scoffed. “I’ll give yah a fair go on top. Just don’t think for a second that I’ll let yah walk away. And trust me, Dars, yah don’t want me chasin’ yah. And if yah make me chase yah, yah definitely don’t want me catchin’ yah.”

I hummed in impertinent delight and looked ahead, met his eyes in the mirror. “Are you going to behave?”

He grumbled his response but remained motionless.

You know what pornstars make look laughingly easy? Riding a guy on top. I’m by no means _leggy_ and Digger was in no fashion _slim_. A few shallow thrusts and my inner tendons stretched and burned, griped at me for quitting my yoga classes. But the view. Goddamn, it was worth it. You need a mirror in the bedroom for this position, otherwise you’re stuck staring at the guy’s feet or enjoying a scenic overlook of his furry ballsac.

But instead of focusing on the more unsavory parts of the male anatomy, I watched my body rise and fall over his, my thighs flexing as his length speared in and out at my own pace. I also watched Digger’s chest rise and fall in deep, controlling breaths to rein in the impulses of his body. Sweat glistered on his brow. The steel in his eyes melted as they glazed and unfocused.

Just because I forbade him from moving his hips didn’t mean his mouth would follow suit. “Maybe this way’s not so bad after all. Get to gander at that sweet arse of yours. Wanna fuck that sweet arse, but the cunt’s too fuckin’ good.” 

His fingers bit harder into my hips and my back arched in a steeper angle. I slumped forward, my hands groping for purchase on his athletic thighs. My breasts swayed with the movement. In this position my pussy clutched impossibly tight on the velvety, slick friction jabbing within my body. Good thing I already had him inside me, because there was no way he’d be able to enter with my hips tilted like this. 

One hand abandoned my hip followed by an obscene slurp and pop from his mouth. My gaze flicked up and met his in the mirror. I watched his face, his stare dislodged from mine and locked down where his cock dived inside me over and over again. And I expected it when his hand slid down from my hip to my ass, I expected it when he clutched my plump cheek and spread it aside, but I still keened from dirty, shameless joy as he plunged his thumb up my ass.

Lubed with moisture borrowed from his own mouth, the digit went in swiftly and ruthlessly. The ring gave and I let out a moan too sweet to stem from displeasure.

“George…oh, fuck…” was about the extent of my lexicon at the moment.

“Now, now, you know what to call me when I ‘ave something plugged up yah arse.” He stroked his thumb in and out of secret inner flesh. 

“Please…Captain…”

“Now there’s a good pet.” His feral grin flashed in the mirror. “You wish this was my prick, don’t yah. Greedy girl.”

Primal momentum tipped in his favor and I no longer cared if he stayed still as a statue or bucked like a bronco. I’d never make it as a dominatrix. I lacked the patience for denying what my own body so desperately demanded. Digger, on the other hand, bleed and sweat alpha finesse of a tried and true dominant.

His stare held mine in the reflection. “Use yah hand. Play with yah self while yah take my prick.

Unashamed, my hand delved at the apex of my thighs and I caressed my clit, stoking the sensations coursing through my lower body until they reached a fever pitch. His cock buried inside me, his thumb prodding forbidden depths, clashed and flowed with my own fondling. Occasionally I stole a few selfish gropes of his balls. They were drawn up tight to his body now, telling of his own imminent release.

I bounced happily on his dick, took everything he gave to me, the room around us quiet as a church save for my reedy moans, his harsh grunts, the wet slap of our bodies joining and the groan of my strained mattress. The sounds themselves twisted together, matched the twining of my heartbeat beat with my rapidly quickening breath until it all culminated, my overwrought nerves fragmented then spliced together. I broke with a whimper chased by a swear. My pussy rippled and bore down on his dick like it was never going to release him.

“Darcy…fuck…” He choked on the words like the plea of a dying man and I felt him buck, felt his dick jerk and spasm as he emptied his balls inside me. 

Too much. All to much. Overstimulated, drunk on sensation, my peak scalded through me in terrible, fantastic waves. My own climax rose up so hard, so fast, so utterly devastating that I nearly blacked out. The only way I could tell I was still alive was because sparks flashed in the darkness behind my clenched eyelids and my heart nearly beat itself out of my chest.

Exhausted and as sturdy as a wet rag, I toppled forward, the mattress rushing up to cushion my fall. My breath boiled out in shallow pants as I listened to the rough cadence Digger’s own taxed breathing. The world spun down slowly, threads of consciousness knitting themselves back together as the murky vignette receded from the edges of my vision. When my sight finally focused itself, I realized I had ended up face-to-foot, collapsed between his spread legs with one of his size 12 bare feet as my scenery. A three inch long scar marred the top of the hairy foot and I knew from intimate experience there was a corresponding inch and half scar on the sole underneath. I glared at that mark. Odd reaction, I know, but that scar was what got me into this slow car crash of a relationship in the first place.

I turned head away, wiping my sweaty forehead on the counterpane and facing the mirror once again. Cool air brushed over my exposed folds. His cock disgorged, popped out with a single clench of my inner muscles followed by his spend. Yet Digger seemed reluctant to give up the other orifice he claimed.

“You can take your thumb out of my ass now,” I said over my shoulder, my limp muscles too uncooperative to do much else than nag.

“Why? Yah usually act like yah got somethin’ up yah clacker. Why not me thumb?” I heard the whiplash grin and swatted at his knee.

“Fucking bogan.”

He withdrew his thumb only to spank me across my vulnerable right cheek.“Oi. That’s one of our words. You Seppos aren’t allowed to use our words.”

“Might I remind you that I was born in Ireland. Only half-American by blood, but whatever. Ye fecking knacker. Happy?”

“Such a sexy language. Gonna get me coiled up again if yah keep talking like that,” he said but his ragged voice belied his boast of male vigor.

We shared the silence for a few moments. The sweat beaded on my back chilled, running a shiver down my spine. Digger must have noticed because he massaged heat into my thighs with several firm strokes.

“So, yah don’t have a vibrator, but yah kept the strap-on?” he asked nonchalantly and out of nowhere.

I pushed up off the bed to glare at him under my propped arm, my view upside-down in that position. “You went through my nightstand?”

His inverted smirk split into a broad grin, a grin that was one part gold and three parts ivory in its pride. “Didn’t ‘ave tah when yah so easily sucked in.”

I glared, the heat blooming on my cheeks nearly as hot as the flaming look I stabbed him with. Must not have been as intimidating as I intended based on how loud he crowed.

“Aw, stop it. Yah look about as hard as a Care Bear tryin’ to pick a fight.” His finger traced the pink flush of an early bruise his palm planted on my ass. “Even got a Cutie Mark. Suits ya.”

“That’s My Little Pony. They have Cutie Marks on their asses. Care Bears have symbols on their stomachs.” 

“That’s even bettah. Maybe I’ll invest in one of those plugs that looks like a horse tail. Really pull the look togetha.”

Alright so I strolled right on into that one. No one out schooled Digger on MLP. While I abided the larceny and the assault charges, his obsession with pastel colored talking ponies often caused me to question exactly what I sort of depravity I’d gotten myself into. “Nope. I draw the line at that pony shit. You know that.” 

“Bloke can dream. Can crack a fat to what he dreams bout too. Free country here an all, innit?” He lazily stroked my _cutie mark_. “Yah deadcert the pony stuff’s off the table? Yah’d look adorably fuckable in one of those horsetail plugs.”

I twisted and braced on one elbow because I wanted to read his face. What I was about to suggest was too good too miss. “How about you wear the tail. Then I’m all for it.”

He kneaded my one cheek, swatted the blossoming mark to add color to it. “How bout we toss for it? Heads, I plug your arse. Tails, you plug mine. Deal?”

Bless me with holy water from the Vatican because the man was serious. “You’re a one-man Sodom and Gohmorrha, aren’t you, Captain?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the read! As always comments and critiques are welcome and much appreciated!


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